Inspector of the Dead

  Normally, Becker would have been distracted by the black-and-white squares of the marble floor or by the intricate design on the bronze of the staircase’s balustrade—a word with which Becker had only recently become familiar. But this was hardly a normal occasion. Becker’s concentration quickly focused on a heap of clothes at the bottom of the stairs. Wary, he took three steps forward, just far enough to determine that the heap of clothes was the body of a female servant, whose head had been similarly shattered and who lay in the dried remnants of her blood.

  His chest cramping, he walked cautiously backward. At the front door, he returned his knife to its scabbard to avoid alarming anyone when he stepped outside. When he squeezed through the gap he had made, the cold breeze outside couldn’t compare to the chill of the house. The clouds were darker.

  The two newspaper writers were trying to persuade the constable to let them through.

  “What did you find?” one of them shouted.

  “Constable, use your clacker!” Becker yelled.

  Thinking that Becker wanted the constable to hit them, the reporters scurried backward.

  The constable gripped the clacker’s handle and swung its blade, the fierce noise gaining volume from the confines of the narrow street.

  Alarmed faces peered from behind curtains across the way. Servants hurried from doorways. What had been deserted thirty seconds earlier suddenly came to life.

  A constable ran along the street. The system of patrol areas was such that policemen were never out of hearing range of one another. Seeming to prove the point, an additional constable ran from the opposite direction.

  Becker told the first one, “I’m Detective Sergeant Becker. Stay here to help keep order.” He instructed the other newcomer, “Run to St. James’s Church. Tell Inspector Ryan that Lady Cosgrove isn’t alone.”

  “She isn’t alone?”

  “The inspector will understand what it means. Tell him to come at once. Bring more constables. As many as possible.”

  As the patrolman raced away, two more arrived.

  “What’s ’appened?” a woman in an apron yelled from the crowd.

  “My master wants to know what’s all the commotion,” a footman in livery demanded.

  “Tell him everything’s under control. All of you, return to your places,” Becker ordered. “There’s nothing to see here.”

  “Bobbies can’t tell us what to do in Mayfair,” the aproned woman shouted.

  Becker was tempted to ask her how she’d enjoy talking about it behind bars at the station house. But how would Ryan handle this? he wondered.

  “Come here,” Becker told her.

  The woman suddenly didn’t look so confident. “Me?”

  “You’re the one I’m pointing at. Come here.”

  She hesitantly obeyed.

  “Do you want to help? This’ll give you something to tell in the kitchen.”

  The idea of bringing gossip back to where she worked made the servant smile.

  “Are there back entrances to these houses?” Becker asked.

  “There’s a mews behind ’em. That’s where they lets us enter—where the groceries and the coal comes.”

  “Show this handsome constable where the back entrance is.”

  “He don’t look ’andsome to me.”

  “Now you hurt his feelings. Show him the back entrance. Constable, nobody goes in. And watch yourself, because somebody with nasty intentions might come rushing out.”

  “Understood, Sergeant.”

  Becker wasn’t used to being called by his new title. For a moment, it seemed that the constable was talking to someone else.

  As the servant led the constable away, three other patrolmen ran from one end of Chesterfield Hill while two more hurried from the other.

  Showing his badge, Becker motioned for them to gather close. He kept his voice down so the reporters couldn’t hear. “At least two people inside have been killed. I haven’t searched the entire house.”

  Violence in this district was so unusual that their features tightened.

  “First St. James’s and now this,” one of them murmured, news about the earlier murder having traveled fast.

  “It looks like it happened several hours ago. Two of you stay here and watch the gate. The rest of you talk to these people. Find out if they saw or heard anything unusual.”

  When the constables separated, one of the reporters called, “Hey, let us know, too!”

  Becker told the patrolmen at the gate, “No one comes through, except Detective Inspector Ryan.”

  He turned to the constable who’d accompanied him from the church. “Follow me.”

  They mounted the steps and squeezed through the opening.

  “This is the first one,” Becker said.

  The smell of death seemed stronger. Even in the shadows, Becker could see that the constable’s eyes narrowed when he stared down at the corpse’s cratered head.

  “Step around. Don’t disturb anything,” Becker said. “I need your help in case the man who did this is still inside.”

  The constable drew his truncheon from his belt. As he entered the hall, he gaped at the statues on marble pedestals, the gilded molding, and the frescoed panels.

  “Blimey, people actually live like this,” the constable said in wonder.

  “They’re also murdered in it,” Becker reminded him. “Pay attention to why we’re here.”

  Becker approached the body of the female servant at the base of the stairs. Again asking himself what Ryan would do, he knelt and studied the circular wound on her head, which seemed to have been made by the same object that had killed the butler at the entrance.

  He opened the nearest door, one on the right. Closed curtains made it difficult to see the upholstered furnishings of a formal sitting room. Tassels hung from table covers, every surface decorated. The amply padded chairs and sofa had a multitude of tapestried cushions. As Becker crossed the thick Oriental carpet, he couldn’t recall having been in a more muffled room.

  He parted the curtains and looked warily around, but nothing seemed amiss. He crossed the hallway, opened an opposite door, and again the smell of death greeted him.

  “Constable, be ready in case I need you.”

  Becker pushed the door farther open, revealing a library. The curtains were closed here also. Scanning the shadows, he saw a man in a red leather chair. The man appeared to be reading a book.

  “Lord Cosgrove?” Becker asked. He didn’t know why he’d spoken. The sour odor in the room made clear that the man could never reply.

  Prepared to defend himself, Becker walked to the left and opened the curtains. Light fell on the man in the chair. Agony twisted the corpse’s wrinkled face.

  A voice spoke so unexpectedly that Becker flinched.

  “Where’s Detective Sergeant Becker?” The voice belonged to Ryan. It came from the hallway.

  “He’s in there, Inspector,” the constable replied.

  Ryan appeared in the library’s doorway. “‘Lady Cosgrove isn’t alone’? Your message certainly made me curious.”

  “How does De Quincey put it? Several people in this house have joined the majority.” Becker referred to De Quincey’s observation that over the millennia, more people had died than were currently alive.

  Ryan crossed the library, focusing on the man in the leather chair.

  “Have you ever met Lord Cosgrove?” Becker asked.

  “Once. Commissioner Mayne sent me to make some comments to the prison committee. As the director, Lord Cosgrove had a few questions for me afterward.”

  “Is this Lord Cosgrove?”

  “I doubt that even his wife, if she still had breath, would recognize him,” Ryan answered.

  The man was tied to the chair. A rope encircled his neck and was secured to the top of a ladder directly behind him. The ladder was anchored to rails on the wall and provided access to the upper shelves of books.

  One of those books was open in the man’s hands. His h
ead drooped as if he were reading it.

  “His eyes,” Becker said. Appalled, he gestured toward what was in them. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  “No,” Ryan answered.

  A tapered silver pen projected from each eye. Dried dark streaks descended from the ruptured orbs, making it seem that the figure had wept blood. Becker repressed a shudder as he imagined the agony of the steel nibs being rammed into the eyeballs.

  “It’s hard to know what finally killed him,” Becker said. “Did he bleed to death or was he choked?”

  “The pens in his eyes were torture. The rope is what did it,” Ryan answered.

  “But how can you be certain?”

  “What color are his lips and tongue?”

  Knowing that Ryan was testing him, Becker overcame his revulsion and stepped closer, staring at the pain-contorted mouth and the tongue protruding from it.

  “Blue.”

  “Have you ever been to a hanging?” Ryan asked.

  “Once. From a distance. That was enough.”

  “Blue lips indicate that the body struggled for air. Loss of blood weakened him. His head drooped toward the book. The killer arranged things so that the victim hanged himself. What’s the book he’s supposed to be reading?”

  Aware of how much he needed to learn, Becker steadied himself and raised the book from the corpse’s hands, noting the title on the spine. “It’s about the law.”

  A piece of paper projected from the pages. Becker pulled it out. The note had the same kind of black border that was on the message Lady Cosgrove had clutched when she was killed.

  “What does the note say?” Ryan asked.

  “It’s a name, but it isn’t familiar to me. Edward Oxford.”

  “Edward Oxford? Are you sure?”

  “You recognize that name?”

  “God help all of us, yes.”

  Continuing the Journal of Emily De Quincey

  While the questioning persisted in St. James’s, Father sat on the altar rail. His legs too short to reach the floor, he moved his boots up and down as if walking on air. When he wasn’t staring at the pool of blood, he studied Lady Cosgrove’s pew, where a photographer arranged a camera. Father’s need made his face sickly pale. Seeing him reach beneath his coat for his laudanum bottle, I hurried to restrain him lest he further outrage the church members.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Trask continued to assist the police in keeping order while the beautiful woman whom he’d escorted into the church gazed in admiration at the respect he received. I couldn’t help noticing that the colonel occasionally glanced at me with the same puzzlement that he’d shown when he first saw me, seeming to recognize me but unable to recall the occasion. That increased my own puzzlement. I waited for a moment when the colonel wouldn’t be occupied so that I could approach him and provide an opportunity for him to explain, should he be inclined to do so.

  But before I could manage that, Sean (I refer to Inspector Ryan) led Father and me outside, guiding us to the edge of a growing crowd.

  “Lord Palmerston’s coach is here. His driver and footman have firm orders to take you to Euston Station.”

  “I should stay,” Father said.

  “You were of help seven weeks ago,” Sean granted. “But Lord Palmerston made clear how displeased he would feel if you missed your train. He controls the police force more than Commissioner Mayne does, so I don’t have a choice. You answered all my questions. If I have others, I can telegraph them to you in Edinburgh. Fortunately Sergeant Becker and I saw the same things that you did.”

  “Did you in fact see the same things that I did?” Father asked.

  “I promise to remember your theory about many realities.”

  Shaking hands with us, Sean held mine longer than simple friendship required. Despite the cold weather, I felt warmth rise in my cheeks.

  “Emily, I shall miss our conversations,” he said.

  I don’t normally lack words, but I confess that my sorrow about leaving made it difficult for me to speak.

  “I shall miss our conversations, also,” I managed to say.

  Remembering the proprieties, Sean turned toward Father. “And of course I shall miss my unusual conversations with you, sir.”

  “It’s been a long time since anyone addressed me as ‘sir,’” Father admitted. “Not many weeks ago, you referred to me in other ways.”

  Sean glanced down, embarrassed. “We have all come a long way. I wish we could have gone farther.”

  He looked in my direction. “Thank you for helping to nurse my wounds, Emily. Godspeed in your travels.”

  As he continued to hold my hand, my cheeks felt warmer. “Be safe,” I whispered, leaning close, trying to lend privacy to our farewell. “I shall write when we arrive in Edinburgh.”

  A constable suddenly ran toward us, forestalling the many other things that I wanted to say. “Sergeant Becker needs you at Lady Cosgrove’s home, Inspector. He said to tell you to come at once—that she isn’t alone.”

  “Not alone?”

  “Those are his words. He said that you’d understand what it meant—and that it was urgent.”

  The look in Sean’s eyes did indeed show understanding. He told Father and me, “I’m afraid I must go.”

  “Yes, please do your work,” I told him. In truth, I wished that he would stay, but when I reached to touch his arm, he was already hurrying through the crowd.

  Abruptly Lord Palmerston’s footman rushed toward us through the mass of newspaper writers and onlookers.

  “Quickly. We should have departed for the station a long time ago.” The footman sounded distraught. “Lord Palmerston’s orders are emphatic. He doesn’t want you to miss your train.”

  While the footman urged us toward the coach, one newspaper writer told another, “There goes the Opium-Eater. Did you hear what he said about the great nebula in Orion?”

  “Is that the new public house on the Strand?”

  “In the night sky. The Opium-Eater said that the nebula looks like a man’s skull with a gap in it and celestial matter streaming from his brain. That’s what opium’ll do to you.”

  When I saw our meager bags strapped to the top of the coach, the reality of our unhappy departure weighed on me. No sooner had the footman shut the door on us and clambered onto the back than the coach bolted forward, its driver determined to obey Lord Palmerston’s orders.

  Sitting across from me, Father trembled.

  “It’s all right now,” I told him.

  He instantly withdrew his laudanum bottle and drank its ruby liquid. He closed his eyes, paused, opened his eyes, and drank again. Their blue acquired a misty glitter. The dull sweat on his face seemed to be absorbed back into his skin. Gradually, he stopped moving his feet up and down.

  If we had been traveling directly back to Edinburgh, our schedule would have been impossible, for trains to that distant area depart early in the morning in order to disembark their passengers on the night of the same day. But during our final weeks in London, Father had lapsed into a melancholy that was deeper than usual. I attributed his mood to his ever-increasing dependence on opium and his fears that if he didn’t soon make a final heroic effort to free himself of its bondage, it would destroy him.

  His melancholy made him want to visit the graves of his two sisters at his boyhood home in Manchester. The newspaper reporter couldn’t have known that Father’s obsession with skulls and matter pouring from them came from the postmortem surgery performed on one of his sisters to see whether her unusually large head had been the consequence of a fatally misshapen brain. Father had nightmares about the deep cleft that a surgeon had made in her skull.

  One of my brothers, William, had died from ravaging headaches that reduced him to blindness and deafness. After my brother’s ordeal had finally ended, an autopsy disclosed a large section of green matter in his brain. Father suffered nightmares about that opened skull, too.

  As the coach turned north, rattling from Piccadilly onto R
egent Street, Father leaned out the window, calling to the footman on his perch at the back, “What is your route to Euston Station?”

  “From Regent Street to Portland Place! Then right onto the New Road!”

  “Please turn right onto Oxford Street instead.”

  “We know the way to the station.”

  “My route will take you there as quickly. I wish to look at something.”

  Despite the noise of the coach’s wheels, I heard the footman mutter before calling to the driver, “Turn east at Oxford Street!”

  “What for?”

  “A request from our passengers!”

  “Ha! The last one we need to oblige!” the driver said, perhaps unaware that we could hear.

  After the coach veered right onto Oxford Street, Father called to the footman, “Stop!”

  “But we need to get to Euston Station!”

  “Stop!” Father shouted. For a small man, his voice was so loud that it startled me.

  The sound of the horses’ hooves didn’t hide the driver’s curse as he halted at what I saw was the bottom of Great Titchfield Street.

  Father opened the door and stepped down.

  I followed.

  “No, don’t get out!” the footman exclaimed. “You said you only wished to look at something! We need to go to the station!”

  Early on Sunday afternoon, the shops on Oxford Street were closed. Traffic was sparse, only a few hansom cabs and carriages clattering past. Low clouds darkened the sky. Chimney smoke obscured the tops of buildings.

  Father mournfully surveyed his surroundings. When he was seventeen, it was on this street that he had spent four starving months among prostitutes and beggars, trying to survive by his wits in the cruelty of a London winter. One of them, Ann—swallowed by the pitiless city long ago—had been the love of Father’s life before he met my mother.

  “Even near death, I was more alive then,” Father murmured.

  “Please don’t talk about death, Father.”